


of places where you thought that love would be found

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Discussion of past hospitalization and mental health issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Just to be clear the sex in this is Quentin/Eliot, M/M, Multi, Seriously though this is mostly sex and feelings, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, but Marqueliot is endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-21 04:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19995730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: He tries to look at Eliot’s hands, his arms as they walk, but Eliot doesn’t give him a lot of time for study.  It’s presumptuous to ask someone what their soulmate mark says, most people consider it slightly personal information (with the exception of people like Julia who just give no fucks). But Quentin thinks that if Eliot has a picture, like his, he’ll be able to tell from a quick glance, and he can’t figure out a way to phrase asking that, anyway.He can barely contain how excited he feels as they walk, and have snippets of conversation, and his wondering grows into full-on hope.  Eliot opens a door and Quentin finally catches enough of a glimpse.  It’s on the wrong side of Eliot’s arm for him to see clearly, but Quentin can definitely see a distinct letter ‘M’.  So not him, then.-- A season 1 soulmate au --





	of places where you thought that love would be found

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to Gigi for reading this and giving me excellent notes and reassurances.  
> \--  
> A quick cw: there is very brief discussion of Quentin's past hospitalization & self-harm, as well as a few descriptions of anxiety/panic attacks. However, this definitely does have a happy ending (and also there is a lot of sex). 
> 
> For whatever reason I've been nervous about posting this and it's been in my drafts for weeks but here goes nothing:

Everyone has a soulmate. Everyone has a name, etched on their body in inky black, from the moment of birth, like a birthmark, with the name of their soulmate. Everyone has that one person that they were meant to be with, to share their life with, and that name is the first word every child learns to read, the mantra that every teenager has on their lips when they go to sleep, waiting for the moment they could say it for real, it is a word that defines who people are, who they try to be. Except for Quentin. Quentin doesn’t have a name, he has a picture. And no one knows what it means. Least of all Quentin. 

“Someone out there must have the same thing as you,” Quentin’s parents had told him, for his entire life, over and over, “you just have to find them.”

But Quentin hadn’t. He’d looked; he’d looked in google image searches, in chatrooms, in niche groups who looked for soulmate anomalies (who only treated him like he was just that, an anomaly, a mistake), and he’d never found anything. Everyone had a name, it was normal, and expected. Quentin is the opposite of that, the unexpected. 

Quentin’s best friend for his entire life, Julia, thinks for most of their childhood that he’ll somehow grow a new soulmate marking, one that says a name. Like it’s a mistake the cosmos just haven’t noticed yet. He doesn’t. 

Julia has a name, a girl’s name that doesn’t belong to anyone they’ve met so far, written in perfect cursive along her wrist. Quentin’s picture is across his wrist, too, but a little lower down, so he can hide it with a sleeve if he wants to. He always does. Julia doesn’t hide hers, she doesn’t need to. 

By the time they’re in college, a lot of the people they know have found their soulmates. There’s so much internet infrastructure devoted to finding people, it’s easier than it used to be. Julia’s parents met by chance in a bar when her father had almost given up, he’s a handful of years older than her mother, but that didn’t matter by the time they met. There are blips in the system, people who never find their soulmates, people who don’t want to, but most people live in the online communities and message boards and find their person without too much difficulty (the issue of people with the same name is harder, but soulmates, once they meet, tend to know each other by a specific feeling, so with more common names it becomes process of elimination). 

Julia doesn’t search for her soulmate. She has some romantic notion planted by her parents that she’ll just find them when it’s time. Quentin tries not to judge her, but he can’t imagine being in her position and just squandering so much time. If he knew what name to search for, he’d definitely have been looking. 

Quentin’s parents aren’t soulmates, and they broke up when he was still small. It never works, pairs of non-soulmates, because one or both are always still looking, whether or not they admit it to themselves or each other. Quentin wondered, once, if he didn’t have a proper mark because his parents weren’t soulmates, but his mother had quickly pointed out that if that were the case, there would be more documentation of it happening. Not her fault. Quentin always feels panicky when he thinks about his parents, because his only option is probably being with someone who isn’t intended for him, and he doesn’t like to think of things ending before they begin. 

The day that Quentin and Julia end up at Brakebills, Quentin has a queasy feeling in his stomach. He feels like when he falls through the bushes onto the lawn, his equilibrium settles the way his ears popped the one time his family drove through the mountains; it’s like something was off and he doesn’t realize it until it pops and his body settles into the rightness of being at Brakebills. 

He isn’t prepared for the person greeting him, isn’t prepared for the way his breath catches and he feels like he’s been running uphill and he can’t stop looking. Quentin always has words, even if no one wants to hear them most of the time, but he can’t remember a single thing to say for a moment. 

His name is Eliot, he says, and Quentin doesn’t think he knows a nicer name. Quentin can’t stop looking at Eliot’s form, his long legs and the fabric wrapping closely against his chest; but more than that he can’t stop looking at his eyes. Quentin remembers some cheesy quote about the eyes being the window to the soul. He thinks it might be less bullshit that he’d thought. 

Quentin watches Eliot’s eyes look him up and down, and he feels excited, and confused, and slightly nauseous. He remembers something someone told him, recently, about how the first time they saw their soulmate, it was like being hit simultaneously with the flu and a contact high. Quentin doesn’t feel dissimilar to that description. 

He tries to look at Eliot’s hands, his arms as they walk, but Eliot doesn’t give him a lot of time for study. It’s presumptuous to ask someone what their soulmate mark says, most people consider it slightly personal information (with the exception of people like Julia who just give no fucks). But Quentin thinks that if Eliot has a picture, like his, he’ll be able to tell from a quick glance, and he can’t figure out a way to phrase asking that, anyway. 

He can barely contain how excited he feels as they walk, and have snippets of conversation, and his wondering grows into full-on hope. Eliot opens a door and Quentin finally catches enough of a glimpse. It’s on the wrong side of Eliot’s arm for him to see clearly, but Quentin can definitely see a distinct letter ‘M’. So not him, then. 

Quentin is glad he has a test, after that, because it distracts him; Quentin likes tests, he’s good at tests, he’s good at logic and structure and basically everything academic. Honestly, it’s fun for him, which has only made people hate him for most of his academic career. He dives into the weirdest test he’s ever taken, focusing on the paper, definitely not thinking about the feelings that seeing Eliot had given him (most of which, except for a hint of the nausea, have dissipated), not thinking about soulmates or how sad his life is or anything he normally thinks about. 

After the written part, he’s too scared and intimidated and confused to focus on anything but the room he’s in, the small audience of (he assumes) professors, and the fact that apparently if he gets upset enough, he can do actual magic. He promptly passes out, and comes to after a few minutes (he thinks, hoping it wasn’t longer) to a crowd of people looking at him with concern and a cup of water shoved into his face. 

The man in charge, Fogg, makes him drink two glasses of water and a glass of orange juice before he lets Quentin stand up and leave the room. By then, the other professors have scattered. It’s getting dark outside. Quentin thinks he must have been one of the last tests of the day. He sips orange juice and works up the courage to ask Fogg about Magician soulmate marks. Maybe there’s something there that can help him. 

Fogg frowns. “Soulmate magic exists outside and above anything we can control. Magicians are, in that regard, just like everyone else.” 

Quentin sighs and Fogg shows him his own mark, apparently under the impression that will cheer Quentin up. It really doesn’t, especially because Fogg has an unusual mark placement, on his hip. 

Quentin wanders until he finds the room listed on a card Fogg gave him, and finds Julia lying on what he can only assume is his bed. 

“Took you long enough,” she says. She sounds happy, and comfortable, which are two feelings Quentin has very little experience with. 

Quentin shrugs. It really was outside his control, but he doesn’t want to be put in the position of explaining himself. He also doesn’t really need anyone else knowing that he fainted. 

“All our stuff got delivered to our rooms, like…well, like magic.” Julia giggles to herself, and Quentin wonders how long she’s been here working on that joke. 

Quentin nods at the opposite side of the room. “I have a roommate?”

“Yeah,” Julia picks at a chipped paint spot on the wall. “Penny? He’s sort of weird, and I think he can read minds.”

Quentin frowns. That’s seems like it’s not going to be fun for him. He spends enough of his time trying to make sure that people outside of his mind don’t know what he’s thinking. He’s not sure what to do without that distance. 

“Trust me, much less fun for me than it is for you.” 

A tall, well-muscled guy walks into the room, wearing basically just a scarf and pants. It’s a look Quentin could absolutely never pull off, but he’s impressed at just how good his roommate is making it look. He’s the eponymous tall, dark and handsome; Quentin wonders idly what he’d look like with _only_ the scarf. Quentin regrets nearly all of those thoughts as soon as he has them. 

“Yeah, well, you’re a little too white and skinny for me, so don’t get your hopes up,” Penny says nonchalantly, lying down on his own bed and pulling out a comic book. Quentin feels like he might faint again. Julia is grinning. 

“Wow, Q, what are you thinking?” she asks gleefully. She glances over at Penny and Quentin follows her gaze. The stupid scarf is on the side of Penny’s bed now, and Quentin can’t help thinking…

“Jesus, stop.” Penny doesn’t sound upset, just annoyed. “This isn’t fucking porn.” 

Julia laughs. Quentin wonders how rude it would be to ask her to leave. 

“And here I thought you were such the innocent little first year.” 

Quentin spins around to face the door. Eliot and a gorgeous girl are standing in his doorway, looking like an ad for some upscale, preppy clothing store. The kind of store that looks empty from the outside because for some reason people think it’s more exclusive if there’s only one shirt folded neatly on every shelf. Quentin wants everyone to leave his room, and also stop talking about him. Except...Eliot is looking at Quentin the way Quentin thinks he was probably looking at Penny. So, maybe Eliot can stay. 

“I don’t know, he _is_ very white and skinny,” says the girl, crossing her arms and looking Quentin up and down skeptically, but with a smile in her eyes. 

“But he’s cute, Margo.”

Margo shrugs, but smiles indulgently up at Eliot. Quentin glances over at Julia for help; she looks like she’s fascinated by everything that’s happening, like this is an interesting show. Quentin is going to have to put a lock on the door, or petition for his own room, if that’s something he can even do here. 

“Sure,” Margo says, wrapping her arm around Eliot’s waist and pressing herself against his side, and _oh._ Margo. As in, the letter ‘M’ he’d seen on Eliot’s wrist. 

Margo notices Quentin scanning her arms, and grins. “Not there,” she says, playfully. She lifts up her shirt; just below the curved material of her bra is ‘Eliot Waugh’ in curly script. Quentin sucks in a breath that Margo clearly misinterprets. “I know, it’s a weird place, but it always gave me an excuse to show off, so.” She shrugs. 

Quentin feels like the room is closing in on him, like the floor is tilting. He blinks black shadows away from his eyes, but they keep coming. Quentin really, really doesn’t want to pass out again, but he’s had a lot happen to him today, and the disappointment of feeling _the feeling_ people told him about, and having it all be for nothing, since Eliot already _has_ his soulmate, the disappointment sends Quentin into a spiral. 

He feels himself pitch forward, and when the darkness and clouds clear from his eyes, Julia is holding one of his arms and Eliot is holding the other. Quentin feels a persistent nerve buzzing at the spot where Eliot is touching him, and he wants to lean closer to Eliot. The nausea is back in force, though, so Quentin leans toward Julia, because she’s been there before for this, and worse, and she won’t be disgusted if he accidentally displays his stomach contents on the floor next to her. Quentin laughs, weakly, at his own imagery, and he can tell it’s making him look like he’s losing it, but he can’t help it; he’s also almost one hundred percent sure the laughter is going to turn into crying in the next few seconds if he doesn’t swallow it down. Julia squeezes his arm. 

“Is he okay?” Eliot asks. Quentin has heard that question asked over his head so many times, but it doesn’t hurt him less this time. 

Julia nods, which Quentin loves her for, and she helps him to the bed and asks Eliot and Margo to leave, which he loves her for even more. Penny glances up, and sighs, then follows them out of the room. 

“I’m coming back in fifteen minutes, though,” he says to Julia menacingly. Only it’s less menacing because he’s being thoughtful and accommodating. 

The door swings shut. Quentin sighs. 

“You thought he might…?” Julia doesn’t finish the question. 

Quentin nods. He doesn’t want to risk talking until the nausea fades a little. Julia sighs then, and wraps Quentin in a hug, and whispers to him the small nothings she’s been whispering to him when things get to be too much for the last many, many years. Quentin rubs his finger absently along the picture on his arm, wishing his name was Margo. 

— — 

Weeks pass. Quentin enjoys his classes, which isn’t unexpected, and he sees a lot of Eliot, which is. He sees a lot of Margo, too, because they’re often together, and he likes her in spite of himself. He’s glad her soulmate mark is in a hidden place, because it means he can talk to her without focusing on it every second, pretending what isn’t visible isn’t there. 

Quentin makes other friends, too, although he and Penny never quite get over the weirdness of their first meeting. Julia likes Penny, though, and against whatever odds exist, Julia finds her own soulmate at Brakebills, and Quentin sees less and less of her. He likes Julia’s soulmate, a girl named Kady, and he can see how they suit each other, although hanging out with both of them gives him a headache from trying to keep up with all of the sarcasm. 

“It’s like getting sick, but good,” Julia tells him, after she runs into Kady for the first time. “Like when you’re on a roller coaster and you might throw up but it still feels exhilarating, and amazing.” 

Quentin likes hearing Julia talk about it, because it seems like she’s really, truly happy. Julia can be a complete asshole, but Quentin still wants her to be happy. Maybe now that she’s complete, that’s she’s found her missing piece, she’ll be less flippant about everything. Quentin isn’t holding his breath.

Quentin’s favorite times are when he sees Eliot on his own, though. It’s rare, seeing Eliot without Margo, but sometimes it seems like Eliot is seeking Quentin out, finding him in a corner of the library, or alone underneath a tree, or once barging in while Quentin is in the shower and making such a show of averting his eyes that Quentin is fairly sure he actually isn’t. 

Quentin doesn’t remember what they’ve talked about, in these moments alone; he always feels sick and excited, like the butterflies in his stomach are fighting, like his ears are popping continuously; still, the sick feeling doesn’t mean that he doesn’t also find himself filled with lust while watching the curve of Eliot’s body, his fingers, the way his lips form words, the way his eyes glint as he looks around, the way he looks at Quentin. 

One time Eliot brings him an excellently hidden bottle of wine and two glasses while Quentin is holed up in the library (which they would have gotten away with if Quentin hadn’t had a moment of flailing forgetfulness and knocked the remainder of the bottle onto what was apparently a very rare book). One time Eliot takes the Fillory book Quentin is buried in out of his hands and then changes his mind and makes Quentin read it to him aloud while he lies in the grass next to Quentin’s leg, close enough to run his finger along Quentin’s thigh when he wants to interject something into the reading (and Quentin spends that entire afternoon secretly hoping his pants aren’t tight enough to display his rising arousal). Quentin can barely breathe in these moments, and it’s only through repetition, through seeing Eliot with Margo enough times that _that_ sinks in, that he’s ever able to talk to Eliot. 

They’re out on the grass, Quentin lying down with his head in Eliot’s lap—he had been lying on the ground, exasperated with the work he was trying unsuccessfully to do, and Eliot had swooped in and gently lifted Quentin’s head onto his lap, and who is Quentin to argue—when Eliot mentions the party. It’s quick, casual, and Quentin only knows it’s important because Eliot hesitates, even though his tone is as confident as always. 

“You…should come by, tonight.” Eliot runs his fingers through Quentin’s hair, lightly. It feels amazing. Quentin wants to sigh or moan, but is careful to not do either. 

“Um. Sure.”

“It’s just a party,” Eliot continues, “but it’s the first real one this year, and I want…”

He trails off. Quentin finishes the sentence in his head multiple ways. The one he likes the best ends “I want you there.” Quentin is fairly certain that’s not what Eliot was going to say, though. 

“You should come,” Eliot says, without ending the previous sentence. 

“Okay.”

Eliot’s fingers in Quentin’s hair stroke a little more firmly. Quentin unconsciously nuzzles his face into Eliot’s thigh, responding to the touch before he can actively think about it. Eliot stiffens, and pulls away his hand, and Quentin feels his stomach drop. Shit. 

He lifts his head up to apologize, and Eliot’s on his feet almost immediately. Eliot shrugs, somewhere between apologetic and questioning. 

“I should go start setting up, anyway. I’ll see you later, though.”

It’s only 2pm. Eliot is still smiling, but his breathing is weird, and he looks uncomfortable. Quentin wants nothing more than to disappear. Eliot turns and walks away, and that, for Quentin, is almost the same thing. He’s replaced almost immediately by Julia, who happens to be walking by with Penny. Penny wrinkles his nose at Quentin, apparently for subconscious thoughts, since Quentin’s conscious only of the anxious ones at the top of his mind. 

“Did Eliot just invite you to the Physical Kids’ party?” Julia asks, plopping down onto the ground next to Quentin. “That’s kind of a big deal, for a first year to get invited.”

She’s much more engaged with social events than she used to be. Quentin thinks it might be partly out of relief that she has her soulmate now, so she’s less likely to drunkenly fuck things up for her future. Also, it matters less what people think of her, as long as Kady is happy.

Quentin nods, and Penny raises an eyebrow. He’s leaning against a tree, near them, but less visibly _with_ them, and he shows no signs of wanting to join them sitting on the ground. Penny thinks he’s way cooler than Quentin, which is annoying, but Quentin can’t exactly argue. 

“Did you actually get invited, or is this just part of today’s Eliot fantasy?” Penny asks skeptically. 

Quentin really, really has to work on his mental wards. He’d accidentally let Penny into a dream the other night that had been somewhat scarring for both of them. 

“Actually invited, so, you know, be nice.”

Julia smiles up at Penny, daring him to say something mean in response to Quentin and get banished from their group for the night. This happens somewhat frequently, but apparently it’s actually an important party, because Penny just shrugs at her and keeps his mouth shut. 

They linger for a while, and then Julia ushers them back towards the dorm so she can get ready (she says it’s so that they all can get ready, but Quentin’s not planning to do more than maybe change his shirt, and Penny looks so offended at the idea that his outfit isn’t up to par that Quentin feels almost bad). 

Quentin does change his shirt, and Penny begrudgingly offers him some cologne that’s at the bottom of Penny’s cologne reserve, a giant box that’s been hiding under his bed. It smells like flowers and rain and wood and Quentin likes it enough to actually thank Penny, and it’s maybe the first decent conversation they’ve had. Penny changes into a shirt that apparently has only broken buttons, because he doesn’t try to button any of them. Quentin decides it’s a style choice just before offering to lend him a button-up that actually buttons. 

They get to the Physical Kids’ Cottage fashionably late, or at least that’s what Quentin hopes. He realizes Eliot never actually told him what time to show up, so they’re either late or early, and by the sounds coming from the Cottage, it’s not too early. Penny breaks off from them quickly, once Quentin has awkwardly told the person standing guard by the door that Eliot invited them and they’re safely inside the party. 

The atmosphere inside the Cottage is lively, and Quentin likes the floating lights that make up the decorations. There are a lot of people there, but he sees very few other first years. Alice is sitting in a corner with her arms crossed, which is typical, and Quentin wonders if he should drag Julia over to talk to her, when really all he wants is to find Eliot. 

“Hey.” Speak of the devil. Eliot appears in front of them, attached at the hip to Margo. Both of them are holding two glasses of some sparkling gold liquid. 

“Hey,” Quentin replies, his spirits buoyed, his nausea back. Eliot hands him a glass, and Margo hands one to Julia. 

“You made it,” Margo says, leaning in close to them conspiratorially. “We don’t usually invite many first years, so. Don’t embarrass us.”

“Right.” Quentin feels awkward, and he wants to acknowledge Eliot in some way, like with a hug, or a handshake, or a passionate kiss. Something. Instead, he sips his drink. It’s good, maybe there’s honey in it?

“Don’t ask what’s in it,” Eliot says, talking loudly to be heard over music Quentin hadn’t realized was playing. “It’s a secret recipe.”

“It’s good,” Julia replies, and there’s really nothing else they can say about it. 

“So, did you bring your psychic friend?” Margo asks, although Quentin knows she knows Penny’s name. He’s pretty sure she’s just trying to annoy Penny, which he is completely on board with. 

“Over there,” Julia motions to where Penny, weirdly, is talking to Alice. 

“Excellent. I love fucking with psychics.” 

Margo takes ahold of Julia’s arm and steers her toward Penny, talking close to Julia’s ear. Quentin feels a guilty giddiness flow through him now that Margo has left. Eliot puts an arm collegially around Quentin’s shoulder and Quentin feels a burning sensation spreading through his body. They walk over to a window seat and sit down, very close together. Quentin downs the rest of his drink. 

“Empty already?” Eliot asks, smirking. A glass floats from the bar over everyone’s heads and deposits itself in Eliot’s hand. Who hands it to Quentin. 

“Nice party trick,” Quentin says, taking a sip. The second drink looks the same, but it tastes sweeter. 

“I am nothing if not full of excellent party tricks,” Eliot replies. His arm is still around Quentin’s shoulders. It’s unnecessary, and distracting, and Quentin is both very happy and very stressed out about it. 

They sit in silence for a moment. Quentin is nervous, anticipation of what could happen and what will definitely not happen coiling in his stomach, and in a matter of minutes his second drink is gone. Eliot downs his too, possibly just out of solidarity. 

“Show me another trick,” Quentin says. He can feel the alcohol going to his head already, and he’s only been there for less than an hour. His voice sounds weird to him, and he thinks he might actually have said something incredibly stupid while under the impression that it would sound cute and alluring. Eliot laughs. 

He nods towards the bar area, and this time Quentin watches entire nondescript bottles lift themselves and pour into two cocktail shakers, which then rise up and shake around each other in a circle, like a weird cocktail shaker dance. The shakers dance toward the ceiling and then over to Quentin and Eliot, and pour themselves out into their empty glasses. Quentin giggles. 

“That’s kind of the same trick.” 

Eliot leans back in mock offense. “Clearly, Quentin, you’re just not drunk enough to appreciate my skills.” 

He clinks their full glasses together. The cocktail shakers have made their way back to the bar. People around are either clapping or rolling their eyes. Quentin leans into Eliot’s arm a little bit, relaxing slightly as the drink flows through him and Eliot doesn’t pull away. 

Someone comes over to talk to Eliot, but he keeps his arm around Quentin even while looking the other direction. Across the room, Quentin watches Penny talking to Margo, looking intensely irritated while she looks pleased. Quentin wishes he knew what she was saying, he could use some tips. 

He catches Julia’s eye by accident, as she’s scanning the room, and she shrugs and waltzes back over to him. She eyes Eliot’s arm skeptically, and Quentin remembers that now Julia is one of the people with a soulmate, she takes the whole thing much more seriously. But Eliot’s soulmate is within sight, and she’s not getting upset, so Quentin thinks Julia should also relax. 

“What are you doing?” Julia asks, talking too loud, and Quentin wishes she’d just stayed over by Margo. 

“Nothing.” Quentin looks at her pleadingly, hoping she stops pretending like she has a greater handle on things than he does, especially when it comes to Eliot. 

“He _has_ a soulmate, Q, and it’s not you.” Julia says each word deliberately, looking him dead in the eye. Quentin wants her to leave him alone. He knows that, of course he knows, but. He can’t help himself, and besides, it’s Eliot’s arm around him, not the other way around. _Quentin_ doesn’t have a soulmate, _he’s_ not breaking any rules. 

“Just. Fuck off, Julia, okay?” 

“What are we talking about?” Eliot asks, turning abruptly back towards them, bemused. 

“Soulmates,” Julia replies, still looking straight at Quentin. She seems determined to ruin this for him, whatever this is. Quentin needs another drink. 

“Ah.” Eliot’s abandoned the person on his other side, who’s still trying to talk to him. “I hear you and yours are very happy—where is she tonight?”

Julia looks embarrassed. Quentin is inwardly very pleased that Eliot seems to be jumping to his defense, even if he doesn’t entirely know what Julia’s been talking about, only that it’s enough for Quentin to seem upset. Eliot’s hand squeezes his shoulder lightly and it takes all of Quentin’s self-control not to jump out of his seat in surprise. He wants to be somewhere alone, but he can’t figure out how to make that happen in a place where so many people can see them. 

“She’s busy tonight,” Julia spits back, “and we _are_ very happy.”

“Of course you are.” 

“I just wanted to make sure Quentin knew what he was doing.”

“And what is that?” Eliot’s speaking like it’s a normal conversation, but there’s ice underneath. 

“Fucking up.” 

Eliot looks slightly taken aback, like he was expecting a more direct attack. “Why? Quentin doesn’t…” he looks from her to Quentin, “you don’t have a soulmate you’ve abandoned tonight, do you?”

Quentin shakes his head. He feels buzzy, tipsy, and annoyed with Julia for making them have this stupid conversation. “I’m an anomaly. I don’t have a name.”

Eliot frowns. “But you have a mark?” 

His arm shifts slightly away from Quentin’s shoulder, and Quentin tries to tell himself it’s just so that Eliot can look him in the face more easily. Julia gives Quentin a “told you so” look. 

“No, um, I have a…picture?” Quentin hates describing this to people, and has been honestly thrilled that it hasn’t come up with Eliot yet, because he usually starts to hate people after they ask him the probing, insensitive questions that come with this line of conversation. The fact that Julia knows this about him just makes it a little bit worse. 

Eliot doesn’t say anything, but he isn’t leaving, or laughing, or asking Quentin what’s wrong with him (all of which have happened), so Quentin swallows and starts pulling up his sleeve to show Eliot the mark.

“Stop.” Julia reaches out and pulls his sleeve back down. Apparently, he called her bluff. She doesn’t really want him to be upset, she was just hoping the threat would be enough to chase him away from this seat. “It’ll just make you upset.”

“Pretty sure Quentin’s old enough to make decisions about pulling up his shirt sleeve,” Eliot says uneasily. They’re in weird territory here. 

Julia gives Quentin one final look that says “stop fucking around,” but honestly it’s way too late for Quentin to want to move, now that he’s three drinks in, and Eliot’s arm is tightening around him again. 

“I just don’t want him to have to be hospitalized, again.” 

Julia drops the sentence fast enough that Quentin can’t stop it, and it hits him like bricks at his chest. Eliot is also startled, and he looks at Quentin, trying to gauge his response. The thing about Julia, Quentin wants to say, is that she thinks she’s helping but really... She thinks she’s helping but... 

But he’s having some trouble breathing and the room feels really hot, and it’s starting to spin.

Quentin stands up, pulling away from Eliot, glaring at Julia. He drops his glass, hears it tinkle into pieces on the ground. He can’t think about it, he just walks away; away from the broken glass, and Eliot, and Julia, and everything. Maybe he’s running, he’s not sure. There are people (dark smudgy shapes, but he assumes they’re people) blocking the door, so he goes up a staircase, onto another floor. It’s dark, and quiet, and empty, a hallway lined with doors. Quentin leans against the wall between two doors, tilting his head back. He tries to breathe, focuses on the feeling of the wall against his neck, his back, his fingertips. He’s shaking, but it’s not so bad that he can’t stand, and not so bad that he can’t focus on anything else.

It’s ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, maybe. Quentin counts the seconds. He can breathe again, but he’s still a little bit shaky, still feels like if he takes a step the floor might spin out from under him. He hears a creak on the stairs, and looks over, blinking until the floor stays still. Eliot comes up the stairs slowly, like he’s afraid that Quentin is an animal that will startle. 

“I guess Julia filled you in, then.” Quentin’s voice is wavering, his fingers still tapping out shivers against the wall, although the frequency is slowing. Eliot reaches the top of the stairs and continues slowly towards him. 

“Actually, I just yelled at her for…a while. I think she left.”

Quentin laughs humorlessly. “Thanks, I guess.”

Eliot stops in front of Quentin, stands close to him. The dark hallway might have felt romantic, under different circumstances, but Quentin is still too upset to think about it. 

“She’s right, though,” Quentin continues quietly, when Eliot doesn’t reply. “I have been…I’ve gotten upset about how people judge my weird mark, about how I’m stuck being alone forever.” 

“Enough that people think you’re crazy?” Eliot asks carefully, in a way that makes Quentin think maybe he knows enough to be less of an asshole than Julia. Julia and Quentin mostly just pretend that nothing has ever gone seriously wrong in Quentin’s life. 

“Enough that I tried to…enough that I needed help.” Quentin wills him to understand.

Eliot sighs. It’s a normal response, but it hits Quentin as being less like the sigh of receiving overwhelming bad news, the one that means he regrets even asking, which is what Quentin is used to. 

“I’m sorry.”

Quentin smiles, as he’s supposed to, when someone hears about your shit and has nothing else they can say. There’s nothing to do but smile and pretend it’s fine. He braces himself to hear about the mental health struggles of someone Eliot knew once.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Eliot continues, and Quentin is surprised, and he can’t tell if they’ve changed subjects or not. There’s a lump growing in Quentin’s throat, and he tries to clear it. Quentin doesn’t respond, but he’s abruptly aware that he’s also glad he’s there, which is good. Different good. 

Eliot reaches out and takes Quentin’s wrist gently in his hand. Eliot’s fingers are long and beautiful, and the tenderness with which he holds Quentin’s wrist is enough to make Quentin’s eyes well up, although he stops himself from actually crying. There’s no way for Eliot to know about the scars surrounding Quentin’s soulmate mark, years old, but it still feels cathartic for Quentin to have them held like that. 

“Can I see?” Eliot asks softly, turning Quentin’s wrist and pulling at the fabric of his shirt. 

Quentin can’t see any harm, at this point; if Eliot wanted to stop associating with him, he’s had more than long enough to come to that decision. But he’s still there, standing very close to Quentin in a dark hallway, gently smoothing his fingers across Quentin’s wrist. Quentin nods and lets Eliot pull up his sleeve. 

It’s dark enough that Quentin is afraid it will be too hard to see, but the ink stands out sharply on Quentin’s pale skin. Enough for Eliot to clearly see the shape and design of the key on Quentin’s wrist. Quentin hates looking at it, because he’s spent so much time doing so, but Eliot seems fascinated, runs his fingers across the image of the key as though testing it for reality. Quentin resists the urge to pull his hand back, to tear this part of himself away from Eliot’s view. 

“It’s gorgeous,” Eliot says, after a moment. 

“It’s nonsense. No one else has one, it’s a mark for no one.”

“Maybe it just means you have to find your soulmate a different way.” Quentin’s heard that before, and he knows it’s just what people say to make themselves feel better. But Eliot sounds serious, genuine. He keeps his fingers lightly on Quentin’s wrist. They’re almost holding hands. 

“Maybe in another life,” Quentin says, not even knowing why he says it, intending to say nothing. It just feels like the right thing to say. 

Eliot smiles, thoughtfully. “Can I tell you about Margo?”

Quentin’s heart sinks. Of course, _of course_ that’s where this conversation is going. He doesn’t want Eliot to let go of his arm, doesn’t want the unusual skin-on-skin contact to end. He doesn’t want to say no and watch Eliot walk away and always regret this moment. Quentin knows it will hurt, but there’s not a choice, not really. He nods. 

“I met her in a bar, on our way to Brakebills, actually.” Eliot laughs quietly, almost to himself. “Isn’t that strange, that we would meet before we got here? I think…we were both running from something, and it drew us together.” He sighs. One of his fingers is drawing swirling patterns across Quentin’s palm. “And all the shit you’re supposed to feel when you meet your soulmate, I felt all of it, and so did she. It was this perfect bubble moment.” This is absolutely not what Quentin feels like listening to. “But,” Eliot looks up at Quentin, “but I felt like I was still looking and when I saw you, I—I felt something else, similar but different. Still perfect. Every time I see you, I feel it.”

Quentin takes in a breath sharply. He isn’t expecting Eliot’s description to end this way, and he can’t comprehend it for a moment, can’t make sense of the words. Eliot’s looking at Quentin with longing, and need, need for Quentin to understand what he’s saying, and—and maybe something else. Quentin realizes he’s holding his breath and lets it out shakily. Eliot waits until it’s clear Quentin won’t respond. 

“Do you feel—?”

Quentin nods, quickly, pushing past his hesitation, trying to keep the moment from disappearing, or getting lost. “Yes.”

Eliot surges closer, leaving one hand on Quentin’s wrist and wrapping the other around the back of his neck. Quentin can feel how close they are, can feel every nerve under his skin reacting to both of Eliot’s hands, the electricity racing inside him. Eliot’s eyes are trained on Quentin’s, not on his weird mark, but on Quentin’s eyes. 

“Tell me,” Eliot breathes.

Quentin’s breaths are all shaking, he feels like he’s being pressed into the wall even though it was his choice to stand against it. He wants all of this, he feels guilty about all of it. He can’t move, though, and he can’t ignore Eliot’s request. 

“I feel…nauseous, and excited, and…” Quentin says quietly, and Eliot smiles. “I feel like I’ve been waiting my entire life to meet you and every time you touch me I feel like my body lights up like christmas, and…and it’s all just dumb.” Quentin doesn’t move away, but he tears his eyes from Eliot’s. “Because you _have_ a soulmate, and all I have is this meaningless key and it doesn’t matter what you…do to me. It doesn’t matter how I feel.” 

“It does.” Eliot leans forward, carefully, giving Quentin time and room to leave, to pull away, to say he doesn’t want anything more. Quentin doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak, he lets Eliot lean in and press the softest kiss to Quentin’s lips, his mouth warm on Quentin’s. Quentin feels the same for a moment, and then everything coiled inside of him explodes, nerves and butterflies and muscles and breaths and thoughts colliding into fireworks and sparks. Quentin doesn’t want Eliot to stop kissing him, even though he knows it’s wrong, he doesn’t want the moment to ever end. 

It does, though, and Eliot pulls back very slightly, gauging his reaction. Quentin knows he’s smiling, but he feels sad. And confused.

“What…why?”

Eliot laughs lightly. “I don’t feel like I had a choice.”

“What about Margo?”

Eliot rubs his fingers on Quentin’s neck, catching his hair every so often. It feels nice. Quentin shakes away the feelings, even though he wants to let himself fall into them. This conversation is important. 

“Maybe Margo saved me so that I could meet you.” 

Fuck, that’s romantic, and Quentin pushes forward and kisses Eliot this time, wrapping his free hand around Eliot’s waist, even though he shouldn’t, even though they’re literally talking about Eliot’s soulmate. He pulls away, wishing they could stay like this for longer. Eliot’s face looks blissful. 

“This isn’t fair to…anyone…to Margo.” Quentin’s guilt feels like a rock in his stomach.

“She knows,” Eliot whispers. “She knows how I’ve been feeling and…” he pulls back, more serious, “Margo will always be there, we will always be together, but…I want you with me. I need you, Quentin.”

“But—“

“If someone came along suddenly and matched your…key, would you be able to walk away from this?”

Quentin feels it all slipping, but he pulls Eliot tighter against him. “It never ends well, non-soulmate partners.”

“I don’t…think that’s exactly what this is.” Eliot sounds unsure, and Quentin looks at him skeptically. “We’re connected, somehow. And if it is just choice, then, why the fuck shouldn’t that be enough?”

Quentin considers. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t enough for everyone, but maybe for them, it is. Maybe he can move in with Eliot and Margo and be happy for the rest of his life. Quentin doesn’t know what to think, or believe. He only knows what he wants, in this moment. “I want it to be enough. I want to choose you.” 

Eliot smiles. “Good.”

He moves in again and kisses Quentin, harder this time, more purposefully. Quentin feels arousal stirring, and he know, fuck he _knows_ this is all a terrible idea. Especially when Eliot starts pushing his hips against Quentin’s. 

“Wait.” Quentin pulls away enough to talk, “shouldn’t we um, not do this while we’re drunk?”

Eliot plants tiny kisses down the side of Quentin’s neck. “I have a spectacular alcohol tolerance, and you are completely sober.”

“I had—” the kisses are overwhelming his ability to think “—three drinks.”

“All virgins,” Eliot says, and Quentin can feel Eliot’s grin against his neck. “That’s why I couldn’t let you see me make them clearly.”

“But I felt, I feel…drunk..?”

Eliot’s lips move back up towards Quentin’s mouth. “I do, too. I think that’s just…us.”

 _Fuck_. 

Quentin doesn’t think Eliot’s lying to him, and he feels lucid, just buzzy and excited and overwhelmed in all his senses. Eliot kisses him again and Quentin doesn’t try to stop it, lets himself sink into the kiss and all of the sensations of Eliot’s lips and his tongue and his fingers pressing against Quentin’s skin. Eliot’s right, it doesn’t feel like they’re doing something wrong, it feels like a piece of Quentin’s life has finally fallen into place. It feels like the right choice. 

Quentin lets some of the tension out of his body, lets his tongue flirt with Eliot’s, pulls Eliot up against him as close as he can, impossibly close. Eliot presses in with his hips and Quentin doesn’t even think before he responds with the same. He can feel himself getting hard, and he’s glad there’s no one else around because he’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to retain any semblance of control. 

Quentin feels like a teenager: terrified, excited, overstimulated from just the smallest touches. He feels Eliot’s cock, hard against Quentin’s hip, and it’s the most erotic fucking thing he’s ever encountered; Quentin wants to find a room with a door, or maybe he just wants to drop down and suck Eliot off right there in the hallway. Eliot is effectively pinning his marked wrist to the wall, but Quentin is able to maneuver his other hand along Eliot’s waistband, pulling at the buttons on Eliot’s pants until they come free, the pants falling down along his hips. 

Quentin doesn’t waste any time, runs his fingertips down the edges of Eliot’s open fly and along the outline of his cock through his briefs, and Eliot gasps into Quentin’s mouth. He presses toward Quentin, his knees collapsing slightly. Quentin keeps teasing him, fighting the awkward angle, and then grasps Eliot’s cock through the fabric, gripping it tightly in his hand and creating small, small frictional movements. 

Eliot makes an overwhelmed noise and lets go of Quentin’s wrist, Eliot’s palm hitting the wall beside Quentin for support. The loss of contact with Quentin’s wrist leaves him with an emptiness, but he focuses all of his energy on his new ability to use both of his hands on Eliot. He runs his freed hand along one of Eliot’s hips, grips the edge of Eliot’s pants and briefs and pulls both down in one motion, letting them collect around his ankles. Eliot swallows and looks at Quentin like he’s just seeing him, and it makes Quentin shiver. He maneuvers them around, swapping their positions so that Eliot is standing with his back braced against the wall. 

Quentin runs his fingers over the skin of Eliot’s cock, savoring every moment, every touch, watching Eliot shiver in response, his cock twitching towards Quentin’s fingers. This is different than any of the hurried, guilt-ridden hookups Quentin has ever had. He kisses Eliot’s mouth once more and then drops down to his knees. Eliot’s cock hangs in front of him, bigger than the ones he’s sucked before, but Quentin spends less time marveling and more time figuring out how to make Eliot feel good. He wants to make Eliot moan, and shake, wants to hear his voice rise while he’s pressed against the wall, exposed, what they’re doing unmistakable to anyone who might walk up. 

Quentin’s cock responds to the thought, and he forgets that he wanted to tease more and wraps his lips around the head of Eliot’s cock, sucking gently while encircling the base of it firmly with one of his hands, the other hand pressing Eliot’s hip against the wall. Quentin keeps his suction constant, letting his tongue run around the head of Eliot’s cock, licking the sensitive underside, reacting to Eliot’s soft moans and hip jerks.

Eliot’s moans get more insistent, and Quentin changes tactic, keeping his tongue running along the underside of Eliot’s cock and drawing Eliot’s cock into his mouth as far as he’s able, using his hand to continue the motion on any length he can’t take. Quentin sucks hard as Eliot’s cock hits the back of his throat and Eliot cries out more loudly, pushing his hips towards Quentin’s face, Quentin’s hand no longer a sufficient deterrent. He moves the hand to grip Eliot’s ass instead. Eliot wraps his fingers in Quentin’s hair, pulling lightly like he had earlier that day, when they were just lying together, and this was a fantasy. Quentin moans around Eliot’s cock and the vibrations make Eliot’s face contort with pleasure. 

“Fuck, do that—” Eliot breathes.

Quentin moans again, moving his hand faster, letting Eliot fuck into his mouth as far as he can take it. Eliot’s hip movements get quicker, less even, and Quentin alternates moaning around his cock with suction, drunk on the feeling of Eliot’s cock in his mouth, of Eliot’s fingers entwined in his hair. Eliot groans and Quentin feels his own cock twitching in anticipation.

He can tell when Eliot’s about to come; his hips jerk fast and his face is beautiful and he lets out a guttural moan and pulls on Quentin’s hair hard and then he’s coming in Quentin’s mouth and Quentin feels so alive with the feel of it. He swallows, moves his tongue gently against Eliot’s cock, just to see him react, lets it soften inside his mouth before he pulls away. 

Eliot looks sleepy but he’s smiling in a satisfied way that makes Quentin feel extremely proud. He gives Eliot a moment to pull up his pants, half expecting to be dismissed now and still feeling no regret. Eliot looks like he wants to speak, but instead he grabs Quentin’s shoulders and pulls him up to standing, presses Quentin against him, kissing him fiercely. Eliot licks Quentin’s tongue, tasting his own cum, and it stokes the fire inside Quentin’s cock.

“Come on,” Eliot says, pulling away and putting his mouth up against Quentin’s ear. “Let’s stop dominating the hallway.”

Eliot grabs Quentin’s wrist again, his touch full of fire, and leads him to the back of the hallway. He pushes open a door and waves Quentin inside. Quentin’s never been in Eliot’s room before, and he wants to look around, but he barely takes in any of it before Eliot is closing the door behind them, letting his pants drop to the floor, and pushing Quentin backward onto a king sized bed. 

“You were so fucking hot,” Eliot whispers in Quentin’s ear, climbing on top of him, “on your knees like that.”

Quentin laughs. He wants Eliot to whisper dirty things to him all night. “Trust me, you were hotter.”

Eliot grinds down into Quentin’s lap in response, and he sees sparks in front of his eyes. Eliot’s still soft, but Quentin is incredibly hard, and the friction Eliot provides makes him moan, gasping for breath. Eliot leans down and kisses him deeply, grabbing both of Quentin’s wrists and pressing them into the mattress. Every time Eliot touches his mark, a shiver goes through Quentin, a pulse of electricity starting at that spot. It’s weird and intense, but good. 

“I want you to fuck me now,” Eliot says, looking at him for confirmation. Quentin can barely think, the idea more than he’s mentally prepared for, but he manages to nod. “Good.”

Eliot unpins Quentin’s wrists and pulls off Quentin’s pants, then leans over the side of the bed, a bottle of lube in his hand when he leans back up. He pours some on his hand, and then considers and drips it onto Quentin’s hand as well. It’s cold, and wet and it takes all of his willpower not to immediately apply it to his own aching cock.

Eliot gives him a smug look, then leans back, sitting on Quentin’s lap, watching his face, and pushes his own finger into himself. Quentin stares, awestruck, as Eliot fucks himself on his finger, on top of Quentin. Eliot’s eyes fall closed, his mouth partially open. 

“Help,” Eliot says breathily, after a moment, and Quentin sits up hurriedly, leaning forward for leverage. 

He waits for Eliot to stop what he’s doing, but he doesn’t stop, and after a moment Quentin understands and adds his own finger next to Eliot’s, pushing inside of him, their fingers slipping against each other. Eliot moans, and Quentin moves his finger slowly, carefully. He catches onto the motion of Eliot’s finger, what he likes, but Quentin can go deeper, and he presses his advantage, finds Eliot’s prostate and rubs his finger against it. Eliot’s breath hitches, and he stops moving for a moment, letting his body absorb the sensation. 

Quentin pauses, letting Eliot lead, waits for him to push down against his finger before he keeps fucking him with it, moving away from the more intense sensations. Eliot moans Quentin’s name and he pushes another finger inside him. 

“More.” 

Quentin can barely hear him, but he adds a third finger and Eliot removes his own, fucking himself down on Quentin’s fingers, knitting his own into Quentin’s hair again, pulling harder than before, sending shivers down Quentin’s body. Quentin can see Eliot’s cock starting to get hard again, and he curls all of his fingers against his prostate, and this time Eliot responds with a moan, driving himself down harder into Quentin’s lap. 

Quentin is drawn into Eliot’s movements on his fingers, his moans, his expression, Quentin breathes it in like air and feels the moments sear into his memory. Eliot grins and abruptly pulls off of Quentin’s fingers, presses him back down against the bed, pulling off their shirts in turn, so they’re both completely naked. Quentin drinks in the sight of Eliot completely bare, his skin glistening with sweat and his body, his face perfect like a statue, like a god. He runs his hand reverently along Eliot’s chest, and Eliot shivers, his eyes running over Quentin’s body like he’s thinking the same things Quentin is about him. He leans forward to kiss Quentin lightly before he repositions himself. 

Quentin watches as Eliot pours lube over Quentin’s cock, the sight makes him breathless, with anticipation, and need, and want. Eliot positions himself over it, pressing himself downward slowly until he’s taken Quentin entirely inside him. Quentin is much more average-sized than Eliot, but Eliot goes still for a moment anyway, breathing hard, his muscles squeezing Quentin’s cock, getting used to the sensation. 

Quentin bites back a moan and stutters up with his hips, and Eliot looks pleased, and debauched, and beautiful. He starts moving himself up and down, using his hands on the bed for leverage, and Quentin is overwhelmed with the heat, the feel of him, the sound of their breathing rising into moaning, the electricity under his own skin. Quentin grabs hold of Eliot’s hips, intending to control his motions, but Eliot puts a hand firmly on his wrist and Quentin tries to relax against the bed, letting him set the pace, letting Eliot ride him. He watches as Eliot penetrates himself again and again on his cock, Eliot’s face a mixture of joy and concentration. Eliot’s cock is at full hardness again, and Quentin reaches out for it, moves his hand on Eliot’s cock in time with his movements on Quentin’s. 

“This is—going—to be—quick.” he pants, and Eliot just grins at him and moves faster, closing his eyes ecstatically. 

Quentin feels his body tensing, thoughts of anything outside of their bed thrown from his head, driven by Eliot’s face as much as his motion. Quentin’s muscles contract, his hips pushing up even though he tries to keep them still. He’s looking at Eliot, at Eliot’s body, at Eliot’s cock, at Eliot’s face, at Eliot’s eyes. He feels nauseous and excited and terrified and there’s fire spreading inside of him, the key marked on his wrist feels like it’s just been branded on his skin, and it’s all coming together inside of him, pushing him towards his orgasm, screaming for release and for Eliot, Eliot, Eliot. 

Eliot opens his eyes and stares down into Quentin’s and it’s too much, too much and not enough, and in seconds Quentin is coming, hard, inside of Eliot. He hears his own voice rise in a cry, he knows he’s let go of Eliot’s cock; he’s never had an orgasm this intense in his entire life. He sees stars. He sees the key on his wrist, not a tattoo but an actual key, something that meant something somewhere. Quentin sees another life and it’s still Eliot, Eliot, Eliot.

He floats down, comes back to himself after a moment, and Eliot is still on top of him, Quentin still inside him. The room is warm, and Quentin struggles to keep his eyes open.

“Can I..?” Eliot motions to his cock, and Quentin nods but doesn’t move, can’t move. Eliot puts his own hand on his cock and starts stroking and after a moment Quentin puts his hand on top of Eliot’s, feeling the movements without controlling them. It takes only moments for him to come, more softly, a small mark striping across Quentin’s stomach. 

Eliot leans forward, letting Quentin’s cock fall out of him, spreading himself across Quentin, kissing him deeply. It’s tired, and emotional, and Quentin tries to say everything in that kiss that he feels like he didn’t manage to say earlier. Tries to tell Eliot that this was the right choice, even if he was afraid, that it wasn’t just sex, it was sex and feelings and everything else.

“Q.” Eliot whispers his name when they break apart, and it’s full of meaning, and Quentin wishes he knew what came next.

Eliot pulls himself up, their limbs slowly separating, sticky with sweat; he leaves the bed and comes back with a towel for them to clean up and wipes it gently against Quentin. He drapes a sheet over them and pulls Quentin into his side, making a contented sound when he nestles against him. Eliot presses soft kisses against the top of Quentin’s head, and Quentin runs his fingertips against the skin of his chest and stomach. It feels familiar, already, and good, and _right_. A perfect bubble. 

“Is it…okay…to stay?” Quentin asks sleepily. He’s not sure he could make it back to his dorm anyway, but he can’t quiet his mind without at least asking.

Eliot doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, he says “yes,” and it sounds like a firm choice. 

Quentin closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep immediately. He dreams of things he’s never seen, and places he’s never been, and in every dream, Eliot is right beside him.

— — 

Quentin wakes up early, way too early. It’s still dark outside. He and Eliot are wrapped up with each other, more entangled than when they went to sleep. Quentin smiles to himself, closes his eyes again. He wonders why he even woke up. 

He hears a noise, and realizes he must have heard the same thing before. He disentangles himself carefully from Eliot, who makes a sleepy noise of disapproval. Quentin rubs his eyes and sits up in the bed. There’s someone standing in the doorway to the room. It takes him a moment to realize it’s Margo. 

Sudden guilt floods through Quentin, and he gets out of the bed quickly, looking unsuccessfully for his pants on the floor and eventually grabbing a robe of Eliot’s that’s hanging on a hook on the wall. He pulls it on and walks over to the door, making way too much noise.

“Come on,” Margo says, and she quietly leads him out of the room and to another staircase, then up to a landing with a half sized door. Margo pushes the door open, and Quentin follows her out onto the roof of the Cottage. 

Margo sits down, like she’s used to spending time on the roof, and pulls some beers out of a hidden spot, popping two open and handing one to Quentin. He doesn’t really want a drink, but he takes it anyway, just to have something to worry in his hands. Margo takes a deep swig of her beer. 

“So,” she says, “you two…talked?”

Quentin nods, feeling foolish. 

“So you know that we are actual soulmates. Me and Eliot.”

Quentin nods again. He gives in and takes a sip of the beer. It’s too warm, but he drinks it anyway.

“There’s not a way to break it, the soulmate bond. So you’re stuck with me.” Margo grins at him, and Quentin feels so completely lost as to the direction of this conversation. He hopes she’s not gearing up to push him off the roof. “But he wants you.”

Quentin frowns. “He wants you, too, just…maybe differently?”

Margo laughs. She doesn’t sound angry, just determined. “You don’t have to reassure me, Q. Like I said, Eliot and I are already tied to each other.

“So…you’re not angry?”

“Oh, Q, no.” Margo turns to him and presses her hand to his cheek. It’s startlingly reassuring. “Whatever’s tying you to Eliot, it’s real. Just as real as whatever’s tying me to him.”

“But it’s _not_ ,” Quentin says, suddenly feeling angry himself. “It’s just a _choice_.”

Margo takes another drink. Quentin isn’t sure how she’s managing to drink so deeply from warm beer, but he’s a little bit impressed. “You think the choice makes it less real.” 

Quentin sputters. “Non-soulmate choices just don’t work. Unilaterally.” 

“Stop being so fucking morose. This is different.”

“How?”

“Because,” Margo sighs and scoots closer to where Quentin is sitting. “He’s not choosing you over me. You’re choosing each other, and he and I are choosing each other, and all that’s left is for you and me to choose each other, too.” 

“Meaning what?” 

“I can’t change the way you’re choosing, and you can’t change the way I’m choosing, and neither of us are going to abandon Eliot. So since we’re stuck with each other, we might as well figure out how to choose our own relationship, and make it a full experiment of choice.”

Quentin pauses to consider. It makes sense, somehow. It would be different. Most people who choose a non-soulmate partner are doing it instead of finding a soulmate, not in addition. Plus, whatever’s tying him to Eliot does feel real, even if he doesn’t have the mark as proof. And she’s right, he’s not going to abandon Eliot at this point.

“Okay.”

Margo smiles. “Okay.”

Quentin sips his warm beer. Margo’s not angry, and she’s not chasing him away. The sun is just starting to come up, tinting the world around them with slivers of gold. Quentin feels alive, and wanted, and accepted, and it’s as new as sitting on a roof. 

“So do you and Eliot..?” Quentin trails off. He wants to know if they’ve had sex, but he doesn’t know how to phrase it.

Margo shrugs, understanding the question. “Sometimes.” 

“Will all of us, then..?”

Margo shrugs again, smiling, and it occurs to Quentin that this is the most relaxed and vulnerable he’s ever seen Margo. “If you want?”

Quentin nods. “Okay.”

They sit in silence for a while, watching the sun rise, slowly bathing everything fully in light. When the beers are gone, Margo drops them into whatever secret spot she has and helps Quentin up to his feet and back through the little door. They walk back down to Eliot’s room. Quentin realizes belatedly that they’ve kept hold of each other’s hands. 

“Oh,” Margo says, her hand on the doorknob, “I remembered one more thing.” 

Quentin feels a flare of anxiety. 

“The feeling that comes with finding a soulmate, it isn’t love.” She pauses for emphasis. “Love is something else, something that has to grow, no matter what the foundation. So just because it’s a choice, doesn’t mean we can’t all love each other, in different ways, eventually.” Quentin feels like he might start crying, hopes he can blame it on lack of sleep. Margo laughs, breaking the tension. “So, whatever, remember that.” 

She pushes open the door and they walk into the room. Eliot is still in bed, but maybe not asleep. The room smells like sex and sweat, and Margo wrinkles her nose but then shrugs. She strips off her dress and climbs into bed beside Eliot, motioning for Quentin to get in on the other side. Quentin wonders if Eliot had somehow anticipated this when he bought such a large bed, or if it was just a coincidence. He thinks he’s starting to believe less in coincidence. 

Margo leans over Eliot and kisses his cheek before settling down beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

“Hi, Bambi,” Eliot mutters sleepily. 

Quentin feels uneasy, but he cautiously strips off Eliot’s robe (Margo gives him a once over that seems positive) and climbs into the bed. Following Margo’s lead, and partly because he can’t resist, he leans down and kisses Eliot’s mouth. 

“Hi, Q,” Eliot mumbles. 

He reaches out languidly and pulls Quentin to him, wrapping his arms around him. Quentin doesn’t know how he got to be the littlest spoon, but he’s not complaining. 

The room is warm, and getting brighter, but Quentin closes his eyes and finds the light doesn’t bother him. He feels safe and he doesn’t feel anxious, and if Penny could reach his thoughts at this moment, the positive slant would probably knock Penny on his ass. 

Quentin relaxes into Eliot’s arms, into the slight added weight of Margo’s hand that just barely reaches him. There, in the bed, with Eliot and Margo and the sun and the heat and magic swimming in the air around them, Quentin makes a choice. He chooses to find love. Somehow, he has a feeling it’s going to work out. 

**Author's Note:**

> So I thought I couldn't write a soulmate au - turns out that I just can't write one without allowing for strong elements of choice, so I thought about how to make this au feel good and honest for me, and this is what resulted. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy it though and I would love it if you want to say hi to me here or on twitter or tumblr (i am margosfairyeye on all).


End file.
